


Maybe I Do Like Sequels

by KittyViolet



Category: All New X-Men (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Canada, Dreams, Dreamsharing, F/F, Flavored Lube, Ice Play, M/M, Movie: Frozen (2013), Sappho (fl. 600 BCE) Poetry, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28431216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet
Summary: Kitty ran her still-wet finger along her own shoulderblade, then offered it up for Illyana to lick. “Mmmm,” Illyana said. “Mmmm?” Kitty said.
Relationships: Jean-Paul Beaubier/Kyle Jinadu, Kitty Pryde/Illyana Rasputin
Kudos: 13





	Maybe I Do Like Sequels

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after X-Men: Battle of the Atom (2013) no. 10 and before All-New X-Men (2012) no. 40. Kate is called “Kitty” throughout, because that’s the name she chose to use back then, and the name that Illyana used for her, and because she's never canonically asked for past-Kate to get called by another name. Of course she’s Kate now.

The dreams weren’t the dreams she usually had after a day as blissful as theirs had been: Illyana, who worked out harder, slept harder too. Kitty woke up before the sun came out in these northern latitudes, and realized she had already replayed the evening in her head: Illyana’s tail between Kitty’s legs, the tail’s coil arcing up into Kitty’s crotch, the two of them rolling over until the sheets were spirals, coils, knots, the couple—reunited in the Canadian Rockies after so long apart-- happily tangled among the linens and socks.

In the dream, though, they weren’t at the New Charles Xavier School; instead they were in this swanky Manhattan hotel right after Jean-Paul Baubier’s wedding, in the adjoining hotel suite, so that Illyana and Kitty were not only tangled up in high thread count bedsheets but also knocking over glassware, tableware, vases of roses and daffodils, till Kitty accidentally-on-purpose phased both herself and Illyana through the wall connecting the two rooms, so that they could see Jean-Paul and Kyle going at it in their own masculine way, Jean-Paul’s naked back and shoulder blades moving up and down, sweatily, happily, over Kyle’s form, his toned elbows and forearms swaying, Kyle’s short locks and smooth earth-tone skin spread out under Jean-Paul’s fine Quebecois hair.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” said Kyle, “I want you so much,” and Kitty wanted to see more, but then, in doorway, taking notes, in full field uniform, as if she had been invited too-- was that the young Jean Grey? “We need better sex education, she said, nodding as if she had seen lots of sex between men before—maybe she had, being a telepath and all—and then she turned around and pulled, out of thin air, a bullhorn--

That’s when Kitty woke up. It wasn’t a bad dream at all, but the end confused her enough that she couldn’t get back to sleep right away, so she threw on a mukluk along with her black and yellow snow boots, grabbed a tool bag, and phased through the exterior wall to check on the automated snow removal at the loading dock. Might as well use up the time doing something good for the school before she could sack out again. Especially since she wouldn’t wake Illyana; her magic Russian not-a-demon girlfriend lay right there, blond hair across the pillow, snoozing as if she had no dreams at all.

*

Illyana was—to put it mildly—irked. Triple-irked. Quadruple-irked. And maybe a little distressed. The sun hit her eyes; the outdoor chill nipped and pinched her forehead, her lips, her fingers through her black gloves. The block, or cylinder, of ice in front of her probably didn’t feel much better, if it—if she—were conscious enough to feel. And she could have slept in, if the feeling of something wrong hadn’t awakened her not long after sunrise. If her soul-armor hadn't started to manifest. (She still had a silvery pauldron on, though no one could see it beneath her coat.)

Then she began to guess how wrong it was, and what—or who—the block of ice contained. Kitty must have been inspecting the exterior surfaces for the New Charles Xavier School last night—that’s what she did when she couldn’t sleep and craved fresh air-- and she had never come back to bed. And now here was Illyana, out in the snow, in her wholly inadequate leather coat, trying to solve a problem that didn’t exist when she went to bed.

“Bobby!” Illyana shouted, wondering if her powers—what with all the telepaths around-- could amplify her voice. Having the teen Originals around was supposed to be annoying, sometimes, but not like this. And wasn’t Bobby a little bit young to be going all Omega with his powers this way?

Soon she could hear the young Iceman clambering up the iron ladders and down the spare corridors of the former Weapon X base that served Cyclops’s team as a no-frills school.

The two of them stood just outside the school, on the ramp to a loading dock, contemplating a cylinder of ice with a shape inside. Bits of snow fell all around it; the shadow of the Canadian Rockies fell on it, though it was near noon.

Illyana drew her leather jacket tight, muttered a warming cantrip, and regarded the snow-covered Bobby. He was still scared of her. Maybe he should be.

“What is this and how did you do it and can you undo it?” the Russian sorceress asked the Long Island-born teen. 

He tried to raise one eyebrow, failed, raised both. “Um, Professor Magik, ma’am—” That kind of politeness did not come naturally to Bobby. Nor would it last. “Captain America’s long-lost kid sister?”

“No. Try again.” The cylinder was irregular, like an icicle with the tip broken off, with ripples around its sides at the top and bottom, and more than big enough to hold an adult—indeed, it seemed to hold an adult, someone hazily visible inside, with a black coat or cape, shiny boots, and (probably) a woman’s gentle curves.

“Um, do you want to build a snowman?” That movie again. Who showed it to teen Bobby, anyway? Who knew he’d like it? (OK, Kitty loved it. But still.)

“Robert Drake,” Illyana insisted, spinning on her own heel, showing her high boots. “Do you know who this is or what you’ve done?”

“You seem pretty upset, Professor Magik. Is it your girlfriend?”

Was he trying to make a joke? “She is. She’s also the last woman you’ll ever date. Now undo it.”

Illyana was not in a forgiving mood—and she’s never encountered this version of Bobby, the one so busy covering for himself that he couldn’t take serious matters seriously. Maybe she could just train the others, the ones who grew up in this time period. And teen Jean, who wasn’t scared of her. Not this clown.

“Professor Magik, I don’t know how to undo it.” Right: he doesn’t know he’s Omega Level, Illyana thought. And he doesn’t know what he’s done. He may even have done it in his sleep. Teen Bobby never froze people in Westchester, but an unforgiving research facility in northern Alberta with bad mattresses wasn’t exactly Westchester, and with so much ice and snow and cold already in the air…

“You don’t know.”

“I’m the Iceman, remember? Not the Melter. Definitely not the safely-restore-frozen-solid-people dude. Do you want me to get Triage?”

“Not yet.”

“Can’t she just, you know, phase out of it?”

“She has to be conscious to phase, and she’s…. you know…. frozen. Stop humming.” 

“I know. It’s snow joke. I’m such a flake sometimes.”

“Please stop. Can you make me some rollers so I can move her someplace safer? And then get out.” Bobby Drake tried to do the thing with his eyebrows again, and failed again, and crafted some ice-rollers for the ice-cylinder with the frozen-solid Kitty inside.

And then, fortunately, he got out.

*

Illyana rolled the Kitty-sickle into the school, down one hallway and then another, into a service elevator, then into their room. She positioned the great mutant icicle on their plush patterned carpet, then thought better of it and rolled it towards the door, then back onto the carpet after casting an easy-cleanup ward.

A tongue of fire lit up the top of the cylinder. Illyana looked up to see Lockheed, distressed and fluttering, up by the recessed orange light.

“I know,” the Russian mutant said, as the purple dragon glided down to perch on her forearm. “First the giant bullet and now this. Wait, are you trying to melt her with your breath?”

Lockheed leapt up from Illyana’s arm, landed on the mini-fridge the mutants shared, and nodded: Illyana opened it. The dragon ducked in, grabbed a tiny jar of pickled garlic, and sucked down the entire jar, letting out a breath of yellow flame.

“Oh, dragon,” Illyana responded. “Allium… might actually help, if it’s a certain kind of spellwork? So I guess go ahead and try it?”

The cylinder stayed frozen. “OK,” she said. “It’s…. it’s Bobby who did this, for sure. And I just realized why.”

No one spoke till Illyana address the dragon again. “It's the giant bullet again. A guy can't handle who Kitty is. I hate sequels. At least I know how to fix it.” Illyana poured the garlic oil around the cylinder, then followed up with red pepper, black pepper, sugar, rosemary, and a kind of golden spiky leaf that made Lockheed flap his wings uneasily.

“Grows only in Limbo, dragon. Don’t worry, I know how to use it. Don’t nibble it, though.” The dragon nodded.

Illyana took the top sheet from the queen-sized bed they shared—Kitty once called it a pirate queen bed, and Illyana spent a while wondering what she meant: the phrase felt like foreshadowing. The sheet, crisp linen with four shades of blue in its swirly lace pattern, stood up at Illyana’s command, like a curtain, then slowly wrapped itself around the ice, folding and unfolding itself until it could embrace the smooth, wet sides. 

“The ice would melt on its own, given time,” Magik said absentmindedly to Lockheed. “But it would take a long time. And it wouldn’t be safe for her conscoiusness.” The dragon nodded again. “But I know what to do.”

Illyana’s eyes flashed and shifted. The last of her soul-armor disappeared: she was on the right track. Stripping down to a loose T-shirt and black jeans, she She placed her fingertips along the cylinders, rolling them first sideways, then down. 

Then she started to chant, or sing, or something in between—Hank would have known the German opera word for this sort of vocalization; Illyana just knew how to do it, first in her native Russian, and then in the high language of Limbo, and then in its low vernacular, all clicks and growls, and then in Greek (“Poikilothron athanat’ Aphrodit/ paidios”) and then in English: “Variegated presence, daughter of power, figure of love…” Incantations to benevolent powers were still new to her, but if she had one moment to get the hang of it, this one ought to be the moment.

And it was: the cylinder of ice turned pink, then ruddy, then ruby, then slushy, as slices and pieces began to fall off the body inside. That body—a girl’s, no, a young woman’s, in a thick coat with black and yellow insulating leggings and gloves and curls spilling out of a cap and great big eyes that slowly opened—was Kitty. 

“Not again,” Kitty mouthed slowly as the great swaths of slush slipped off. “I am so sick of people putting me into suspended animation.” She could move her neck, look around. She did. “Illyana! What happened?”

“I’m not totally sure but I think teen Jean accidentally broadcast somebody else’s gay sex dream and Bobby couldn’t handle it. So his Omega powers—the ones he doesn’t know he has—reached out and flash-froze the first animal available. Who turned out to be you.”

Kitty nodded. For the students, it would have been a catastrophe, a reason to wonder if they should be X-Men at all. For her, it was Tuesday. “He needs to come out to himself; otherwise he’ll grow up and try to date me, and we know how that worked out. Do you think I should speak to him?”

“No,” Illyana nodded. “I’ll speak to teen Jean, unless you want—whoa.” Illyana put her hand on Kitty’s shoulder, over the coat, and then under it, so that Kitty could shrug half the coat off, soaked as it was. “Are you… sticky? No, you’re not… it’s…”

Kitty ran her still-wet finger along her own shoulderblade, then offered it up for Illyana to lick. “Mmmm,” Illyana said. “Mmmm?” Kitty said.

“It’s that—” and then the two women spoke as one: “Rose-cucumber lube.”

“The one you found for us in New Orleans,” Kitty said.

“The one that—mmmm.” Illyana licked her lips. Something flickered behind her: curled, burgundy, curious, fast. Illyana slid her newly manifested tail along the smooth floor and the soft carpet till she could rest the soft triangle of the tip along Kitty’s ankle. “Yes, Katya, you’re covered in it.”

“It being…”

“I used an old incantation I just learned, from Aegean and Crimean mystics, to free your lover from bonds: apparently it also frees lovers from things like dry skin and cold weather. The melting ice just…. now it’s all become lube.”

“Melty wetness,” Kitty said.

“Wet meltiness.” And the last plates of slush slid down from Kitty’s midriff, along her thighs, as she threw the coat aside. “Do you have to be anywhere this morning?”

“Given that I woke up in a block of ice, I’m thinking Scott and Emma will give me half the day off.” And Kitty leapt out of the slush pile right towards Illyana, almost knocking her on to the bed: Illyana fell backwards willingly, almost slipping on the lube that was once slush that was recently ice. The blond woman rolled her tail around Kitty’s calf, so that they fell happily together.

The last cold bits of ice and snow from Kitty’s back and elbows and the back of her neck dissolved into slippery rose-cucumber as Illyana rubbed her lover’s body with her forearms, with her palms, with her thighs, and then lay back, so that Kitty could lap the melted liquid off her lover, like a cat. Very much like a cat.

“You love it,” Illyana observed, “when you get to act like a cat.”

“You love it too,” Kitty said. “Melty wetness.” She paused to get all four of her limbs on the bed, in a crouching position, so that she could spread the rose-cucumber around, first brushing her lips against Illyana’s, then sliding her palm down Illyana’s now-bare midsection, towards her belt and hips and thighs, until Illyana rolled her over on the bed, so that Illyana could be on top.

But the slippery melty liquid meant they wouldn’t stop rolling: they almost fell off their bed, their now soaked-through sheets and their slippery bed, until Illyana grabbed a bedpost and swung them back. Illyana’s back arced up, showing her lover her bust.

Kitty sat up and licked, first her lips, and then, bringing her face closer, her lover’s curves and nipples. Then she nodded and started to roll her leggings down so as to present more of her body for Illyana’s now resplendent tail. 

Illyana, now rubbed in the magical lube herself all over, propped herself up further to look at her lover, asking questions with her eyebrows, then with her words. “Do you want me inside you already?”

“I do now. Let’s take advantage of all this—wetness.” Illyana flexed her tail and snuggled close to Kitty, close enough that with leggings rolled down, coat off, wet dress hiked up, Illyana’s tail could slowly and delightfully slide where they both wanted that tail to go. Kitty could feel the triangle at the end of the tail stiffening, growing warmer, staying wet along Kitty's wet inner thigh, and into her--

Except that the rest of Illyana couldn’t quite reach: she was still holding the bedpost so they wouldn’t slide off. Kitty reached out to the other bedpost until something clicked, and she was attached. 

The great thing about metal cuffs, when you’re a sub who can phase, is that you’re stuck inside them until you don’t want to be: it’s safe, as well as fun.

“The bedpost,” Kitty said. “Let it go.”

“More Frozen jokes,” Illyana sighed. 

“For the first time in forever—” Kitty started to hum. “Wait, is this the same thing we did last night?”

“Maybe I do like sequels.”


End file.
